


Lords, Gods, And Madmen

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who, Marvel (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, big damn cross-over fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:56:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a hideaway mansion worthy of a role in clichéd faerie tale folklore, buried deep within the heart of the English countryside, sit four villainous men of equal parts brilliance and madness, masquerading under a profusion of identities and clever lies: The Time Lord from Gallifrey and former Prime Minister of England, the God of Mischief and would-be king of Asgard, the Consulting Criminal and arch-nemesis of London’s only Consulting Detective…and last, but certainly not least, the Government Official, swathed in secrecy and burdened with the role of the double agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lords, Gods, And Madmen

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU with a whole complicated mess of overlapping timelines and altered canonical details. In the Doctor Who verse, this takes place early on in series five, before Amelia Pond and the Doctor start travelling with Rory Williams. As for the Time War on Gallifrey…my headcanon is that both realities still happened, so everything that occurred in _The End Of Time_ is still canon. The Master still got sent back into the time-locked Time War, along with Rassilon and the other Time Lords. In the Marvel verse, Loki Laufeyson has just let go of Odin’s staff, and is falling through the cosmos that encompass the space in between the nine realms. For Loki, this takes place in the time between _Thor_ and _The Avengers_. In the Sherlock verse, this takes place in between series one and two, sometime after _The Great Game_ , and well before _The Reichenbach Fall_. In the Supernatural verse, this takes place in between seasons five and six, following the averted apocalypse, and Crowley has just ascended to the throne as the new king of hell. The only alterations are that Sam Winchester was rescued from hell shortly after he fell, with his soul completely intact, and that Gabriel is still alive. In the Torchwood verse, this takes place sometime during season two, and Ianto Jones, Toshiko Sato, and Owen Harper are still alive.

**Part One: Lords, Gods, And Madmen**

 

            In a hideaway mansion worthy of a role in clichéd faerie tale folklore, buried deep within the heart of the English countryside, sit four villainous men of equal parts brilliance and madness, masquerading under a profusion of identities and clever lies: The Time Lord from Gallifrey and former Prime Minister of England, the God of Mischief and would-be king of Asgard, the Consulting Criminal and arch-nemesis of London’s only Consulting Detective…and last, but certainly not least, the Government Official, swathed in secrecy and burdened with the role of the double agent.

 

**Part Two: The Time Lord**

            The Master, formerly known as Harold Saxon to the public he’d once governed (and, coincidentally, mass-murdered, using decapitated humans from the future in an aborted timeline,) perches on the edge of a leather armchair, directly across from the man whose nefarious reputation had convinced him to return to this dreadful waste of a planet. At present, in an unfortunate turn of circumstances, James Moriarty is proving to be a rather difficult companion. Ever since they had all arrived at Mycroft’s mansion, Moriarty had been arguing at nearly every bump and blemish of their plan, proposing utterly preposterous notions (the man might be a genius, but all of that self-assured arrogance in underestimating his enemies has clearly poisoned his mind…there is _no way in hell_ that the four of them would ever be able to overthrow the Dalek Empire…Dalek Caan really is the poorest example of their species…should’ve just left him chained up in the TARDIS) and forgetting monstrously important details and potential deterrents.

            To name a few…there’s the Doctor’s inevitable interference in their plotting (especially when he discovers that his TARDIS has gone missing)…and then there’s always the alarming possibility that he might team up with Sherlock Holmes…no doubt bound to be a mercurial duo, wrought with dangerous levels of intellect and reckless ruses, at best…the Master shudders to think of what such a pairing could accomplish if they ever forged ties. With a bit of luck, though, Moriarty’s mass, nation-wide electrical and wireless blackout _should_ throw them off the scent…at least, for a little while. It would seem that, in spite of his fatuous eye-rolling and condescension, Moriarty is not, in fact, _completely_ useless…despite the fact that his ploy is a bit, well… _repetitive_. After all, the Master had already attempted to tamper with wireless services via the Archangel Network _years_ ago, during his reign as Prime Minister, and, _well_ …let’s just say that it hadn’t turned out exactly as he’d intended. Perhaps, this time, given the distinct absence of one Martha Jones, it will work in their favor.

            Still, the Master is keen to remind Moriarty that the Doctor is clever, that he will have chosen a new companion with a level of wit and cunning to rival his own, that he’s equipped with a sonic screwdriver that could render the blackout ineffective on smaller levels, and that if he _did_ come in contact with Holmes, he would be able to restore the wireless connection to Sherlock’s phone in a matter of seconds, with the right setting…but Moriarty simply ignores his interjections, scoffing as he shoves an entire plate of jammy dodgers into his mouth and chews unattractively. It's exceptionally frustrating, to say the least, and the Master is beginning to wonder how the Doctor manages to _control_ his companions whenever they get too rowdy…perhaps they _don’t_. Perhaps he should have thought better of his selection, chosen associates with desires closer to his own.

            He’s finished with smoke-and-mirrors plots and ploys, with frivolous distractions and grand entrances. What the Master truly wants now is a simple takeover, a swift subjugation, preferably _without_ Dalek involvement…but Moriarty is being far from compliant, and ignorant of the Master’s vast knowledge on the inner-workings of the universe. He sighs in vexation, twirling an apple turnover in between his fingertips, watching as flaky bits of sugar-glazed bread fall to the polished, hardwood floor. As he corrects the government official’s pronunciation of _TARDIS_ for the fifth time in a row,(it’s an _acronym_ , you fool, stop calling her _the stardust machine,_ )the Master wonders if, perhaps, he’d made a mistake in trusting James Moriarty’s confidence in Mycroft Holmes as the fourth partner in their collaborative scheme. After all, humans could be _dreadfully_ slow on the uptake sometimes…but it wasn’t like the Master’s tale was _that_ difficult to follow.

            During his last confrontation with the Doctor, the Master had been thrust back into the time-locked war between the Time Lords and the Daleks, along with Rassilon, the Lord President, and the remaining members of the Time Lord Council. Throughout his entire life, the Master had been cursed with the existence of an endless four-beat drumming inside his head, a rhythm that replicated the heartbeat of a Time Lord, an illness that had acted as a link between war-torn Gallifrey and the rest of the universe. In the midst of the Master’s final battle with the Doctor, the link had been severed, and the sound of drums inside his head had vanished…but in the destruction of one form of insanity, another had been born. The Master had traded madness for an asylum: the Time War.

            Trapped on the ruins of his home planet, the Master grew even more resentful of the Doctor, plotted and planned and schemed the Doctor’s demise until the crude images inside his mind bled into his dreams. He kept himself hidden from battlefield sites, endlessly searching for an escape: a chink in the armor, a tiny fraction of time that fell out of synch with the time-lock… _anything_ that would allow for his freedom. To his astonishment, the Master discovered a raving, delirious Dalek soldier called Caan lurking about in an abandoned, underground cave, having miraculously escaped the destruction of the Crucible via emergency temporal shift, when the Doctor’s human meta-crisis clone had committed genocide against the Dalek race.

            A mad, brilliant plan began to formulate inside the Master’s mind. He stole a sonic screwdriver from a fallen Time Lord soldier, captured Dalek Caan, wove his way into the creature’s internal workings, and extracted every last bit of information that the Daleks had ever collected on the Doctor: his recent travels, regenerations, companions, and current whereabouts. Then, once he had figured out how to harness its energy, the Master coerced Dalek Caan into activating an emergency temporal shift, and the two of them were ripped from Gallifrey, and transported to Earth in the year 2010. For several months, the Master lived as a ghost among the streets of London, staking out newspaper stands and cafés, awaiting the Doctor’s inevitable return to England.

            And then, one day, the TARDIS materialized in front of an apartment complex on Baker Street, and out stepped the tweed-and-bowtie-clad Doctor, and his brand new companion, Amelia Pond. When the opportune moment arose, the Master stole the Doctor’s TARDIS, leaving him stranded in London. In the midst of his travels, the Master happened upon a rather curious, man-shaped creature floating about in space…a lonely, fallen demi-god from the realm of Asgard. Amazed that this creature could survive the coldest depths of space without dying from implosion or asphyxiation, the Master decided to keep him, in the interest of practicality…and, admittedly, camaraderie.

            Like the Doctor, the Master coveted travelling companions, and had reflected that perhaps the reason for the Doctor’s constant triumph was the fact that he’d always had company in the form of intelligent, resourceful cohorts. Perhaps all that the Master needed to achieve his desire of subjugation and control were _mates_ , in a manner of speaking. With a wicked smile, the cogs within the Master’s mind began to turn, and he decided to return to Earth, in search of a devilishly clever man whom had struck his interest during his reign as Prime Minister: notorious consulting criminal, James Moriarty.

 

**Part Three: The God Of Mischief**

            Mere moments before his capture by the blond lunatic in the flying blue box, Loki Laufeyson had been at war with his adoptive brother and father. Admittedly, his actions leading up to this tempestuous row had been rather disreputable, but surely they could understand his reasoning behind them? Loki had wanted so desperately to convince his father that he was a worthy son, to share in the glorious limelight with Thor, to destroy all evidence of his true parentage, and to prove to the people of Asgard that he was truly _one of them_. Couldn’t they see how lost he’d become, how broken and misguided their lies and secrets had made him? All throughout his seemingly endless lifetime, Loki had been taught to despise the Frost Giants, to think of them as monsters…and yet, he was _one of them_.

            As far as Loki was concerned, his lineage was a travesty, a defect that tarnished his personal history, one that stirred conflict in his ties to morality. It was no wonder, then, that while the overwhelming responsibility of the crown began to cloud his judgment, Loki had been given no choice but to believe that, with over half of Jotunheim destroyed and their king slain by his hand, rendering void Odin’s ploy to use him as a tool for bartering an alliance, there was no longer any need for such pretense, no need for his faux family to carry on with the façade of having ever cared for him. Faced with the dilemma of reprimand or exile, Loki had chosen to let go of Odin’s scepter, had chosen to let go of those he had considered his family in favor of the unknown, hoping and all but _aching_ for the euphoric release of a death that would never likely come for him.

            And then, out of nowhere, a bright blue wooden box had materialized, enclosing him a flurry of orange and green, silver and gold, bright lights and emanating warmth…a proper _time machine_ piloted by a madman who called himself _The Master_. Loki, though quite distraught at having essentially been captured and forced into the Time Lord’s company, was admittedly rather fascinated by the idea of time travel, given that the only form of otherworldly excursion known to Asgard was the Bifrost, which Thor had destroyed during their last encounter. Momentarily distracted from his sorrow and self-pity, Loki had been delighted to discover that he had quite a bit in common with the Master.

            Both Loki and the Master were quasi-immortal soldiers, products of war and mayhem. They both craved control over inferior races, and they both sought vengeance against someone they were once close to, someone in whom they had once placed a great deal of trust and respect. For the Master, this particular _someone_ was another Time Lord called the Doctor, from whom the Master had stolen the blue box. The Master’s plan was to return to Earth, to rouse a team of ingenious creatures much like himself, and together, they would unravel a diabolical plot for universal domination. There was, however, one little glitch in the Master’s plan: Loki had loathed the human race from the moment he’d discovered his brother’s infatuation with a woman called Jane Foster. Obviously, the notion of travelling anywhere _near_ Midgard made him ill, so Loki had resolved to keep to himself for the duration of his stay at Mycroft’s mansion.

            At present, the God of Mischief sits upon a leather ottoman in a corner of the study, far removed from his human and Time Lord counterparts, scowling and pouting, and occasionally poking Dalek Caan’s eyestalk out of sheer boredom. The sniveling man called Moriarty launches another heavily veiled insult at the Master, and Loki rolls his eyes, hating the human race more and more with each passing second. The Master attempts, for the fifth time in four minutes, to reason with him…mentions something about the Daleks having a hive mind, a mass database that connects all of the Daleks to one another, a shared bank of endless information, making them one of the most powerful and dangerous species in the universe…and suddenly, Loki is all-ears. After all, with all of the planets they’ve invaded, conquered, pilfered, and plundered, with all of the timelines they’ve travelled across, stealing histories (and sometimes, futures) from species after intellectually and technologically advanced species…well then, their knowledge of the universe must be _limitless_.

            A wicked smile tugs at the corner of Loki’s lips, and he quickly busies himself with the task of extracting Dalek Caan’s memories, learning everything there is to know about Midgard, the planet he yearns to rule as recompense for his brother’s ignorance, as well as every planet far beyond the nine realms of Yggdrasil, every intelligent species, and every form of advanced technology that the universe has to offer. Through Dalek Caan and the hive mind of the Dalek race, Loki discovers that the Tesseract, a cosmic cube containing unlimited energy, has fallen into the clutches of the human race, and is currently being kept under lock and key in a distant facility operated by a secret service called SHIELD. Mind racing with endless possibilities, Loki begins plotting a way out of the study of Mycroft’s mansion, a way to commandeer the TARDIS and then, consequently, the Tesseract, and sell it to the highest bidder in exchange for a glorious battle, and the subjugation of the human race.

 

**Part Four: The Consulting Criminal**

            James Moriarty reclines in his lavish leather throne at the center of the study, digging an antique teaspoon into a jar of blackberry jam and slipping it in between his pouted pink lips, sinfully tonguing the stainless steel. In between careless bites, Moriarty bickers with the former Prime Minister, weighing the pros and cons of utilizing the remainder of the Dalek race in their quest for universal domination. Equipped with their very own twice-stolen time machine, the four of them could, in theory, bring the entire universe to its knees with a simple snap of their fingers. _Could_ being the operative word, of course. You see, James Moriarty is a man of style, a man who thrives on theatrics, who prefers a carefully crafted, convoluted scheme, an intricate plot complete with code names and clever ruses, a spectacular performance leading up to the final moment of victory.

            After all, a _king_ should settle for nothing less than extraordinary.

            For a very long while, the consulting criminal had been growing restless, endlessly waiting, it seemed, for Sherlock Holmes to catch up to him. So of course, when the opportunity for a brilliant new distraction arose, Jim took it. It was beyond anything he had ever experienced, beyond anything he could ever have dreamed of. This was _time travel_ …this was _advanced alien technology_ …this was the wickedly wonderful, iniquitously tangible possibility, not merely of universal domination, but of control over _time itself_. Moriarty marveled at the thought of what he could achieve once he gained possession of the TARDIS. With a time machine, he could hold dominion over all of time and space, exploit inferior species, and live as a king among the stars…he could destroy the entirety of the human race if he so chose…he could destroy Sherlock Holmes, and erase every last bit of history that revolved around that nuisance of a man.

            There was, however, one minor inconvenience, in the form of the _entire British government_ , as well as international secret services like SHIELD, UNIT, and Torchwood, potentially interfering in his ruse. So Moriarty devised a plan…mere minutes after he’d accepted Harold Saxon’s proposition, he’d met with Mycroft Holmes, a noted government official with quite a bit of power, and pitched the idea of a role in their plot for universal domination. Surely, a corrupt politician like himself would jump at the chance for eternal power and control? Now, I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is _yes_ , of course Moriarty had doubts that he could trust a man with blood ties to Sherlock Holmes, but it quickly became apparent that Mycroft cared very little for his younger sibling…after all, how much of a heart could a man have if he was willing to sell information about his _own brother_ , in exchange for self-satisfaction and job security? To his immense satisfaction, Mycroft had graciously accepted his offer, and invited the three of them to a mansion hidden along the English countryside, where he assured them that no one would ever be able to track them down.

            In spite of Mycroft’s evident intelligence and observational brilliance that apparently outranked his younger brother, he hadn’t noticed the subtle twitch in Moriarty’s fingertips as he’d slid them across various surfaces in the government building, particularly Mycroft’s desktop computer, covertly planting decoding devices everywhere he saw fit. Before they had even reached the wrought-iron gates of Mycroft’s mansion, Moriarty and the Master had gained access to confidential government files, hacked into SHIELD and UNIT databases across the world, and the only remaining Torchwood Hub in Wales, and placed them all under lockdown, trapping thousands of potential threats and would-be heroes in their buildings without power or a means of escape.

            Effortlessly unlocking a series of codes and keys, Moriarty created a collection of exclusive iPhone Apps that, at the touch of a button, immediately shut down most forms of transportation to and from London, cut primary and secondary power lines, severed internet access, and disconnected wireless cell phone services across the perimeter of England, securing their privacy while they developed the perfect plot for universal domination. (And, Moriarty had to admit, though rather reluctantly, that there was something else to be gained by accepting Harold Saxon’s proposal. One of several qualities that Moriarty had in common with Sherlock is that he too desired an assistant…a sort of _mate_ type person with psychopathic characteristics to rival his own…but there was simply no proper way to advertise for a companion in crime. Despite his vast collection of hired assassins, Moriarty hadn’t yet found what he’d been looking for...that is, until he’d met Harold Saxon.)

 

**Part Five: The Government Official**

 

            Mycroft Holmes, puppet-master of the British Government, wraps his fat, wrinkled fingers around a tiny teacup and saucer, handcrafted from the finest delicate china and imprinted with cobalt blue fleurs de lis, slowly sipping his unsweetened Earl Grey and nibbling on a heavily-buttered biscuit, as he observes his guests with unrestrained amusement. After all, Mycroft believes himself in the company of madmen with delusions of grandeur and highly volatile, terroristic, and sociopathic tendencies…what more could he do in his current state of affairs but watch his companions like an overpaid, slightly balding babysitter, and await the arrival of the authorities to come and collect them?

            Come to think of it, how the four of them had ended up in Mycroft’s study in the first place is a rather interesting tale to behold. Mycroft Holmes had always considered himself a rational, logic-driven man, stubbornly British and set in his ways, and resolutely disbelieving and, in fact, _contemptuous of_ , anything that claimed itself one with, or an ally of, the supernatural. Unlike his younger brother, Sherlock, who devoted his time to solving mysteries and riddles, Mycroft wasn’t the sort of upstanding gentleman who preoccupied himself with such nonsense.

            Rather, he had devoted his life to the protection and moral integrity of his country, his beliefs rooted in the factual, the mundane, and the quiet, uninterrupted monotony that life often brings. Mycroft would not dare believe, even for a moment, in the existence of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, despite what modern science and recent phenomena might suggest…the human race itself barely qualifies as intelligent, after all. (Although, admittedly, it had tickled his curiosity when a life-size replica of a 1960’s police box, as well as a rather large cappuccino machine with a plunger and a baking whisk for arms, had ended up in the middle of his study without his immediate notice…or approval, for that matter.)

            So of course, when Mycroft Holmes had been directly contacted by James Moriarty, England’s notoriously clever and consistently evasive consulting criminal, with a proposal for a role in a four-man partnership that would revolve around a plot for universal domination via advanced alien technology in the form of a fully-functioning time machine that could, in theory, be utilized as a weapon for the destruction of time itself, Mycroft’s initial response had been immediate acceptance, convinced that he had hit the secret service jackpot.

            Promptly following their conversation, Mycroft had summoned James Moriarty, as well as his cohorts, former English Prime Minister Harold Saxon, (who had, it would seem, gone completely mental after his resignation from office and the death of his wife, Lucy, and now operates under the pseudonym _The Master,_ believing himself an alien with the power to travel through time and space with the use of a 1960’s police telephone box) and Loki Laufeyson (a self-proclaimed would-be king, who refuses to speak to anyone he comes in contact with, with the exception of the massive cappuccino machine, and openly despises the human race, apparently) to accompany him to an ancient mansion hidden along the English countryside, to discuss details and perfect their plans.

            Here, in the study of Mycroft’s mansion, surrounded by a sumptuous assortment of tea and cakes, Mycroft Holmes assumes the role of the double-agent, pretending to play along with their adorable little “plot for universal domination,” while in secret correspondence with the English police force (and, consequently, his younger brother, who had intercepted his text messages, and commissioned himself as head detective, simply because he couldn’t resist the urge to finally track down Moriarty’s whereabouts…oh, Lestrade will simply _love_ that) requesting their assistance in the arrest of James Moriarty, Harold Saxon, and Loki Laufeyson, under charges of intended terrorism and tyranny.

            In Mycroft’s honest opinion, the three of them _should_ be locked away in an asylum, as they are clearly unfit to function in society. After all, not only do they believe in the existence of extra-terrestrials…but two of them actually believe that they themselves are _aliens from another planet_. It’s preposterous. Content in his role as the double agent, Mycroft convinces himself that this, by far, is the easiest ploy that he has ever encountered, seeing as the lunatics have come flanking to _him_ , and he barely had to lift a finger.

            Amidst the rabid rows between Moriarty and Saxon permeating throughout the room, Mycroft reclines in his leather armchair, cheerily sipping his tea, distracting his company with cakes and biscuits, filling their heads with all manner of nonsensical plots and schemes and implausible phantasmagoria, all the while secretly text messaging Sherlock, Dr. John Watson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade with updates and coordinates, awaiting their eventual arrival and his inevitable reward for having captured and reported dangerous criminals.

 

**Part Six: The Devil Himself**

            Without word or warning, the polished, mahogany double doors of the study burst open, revealing a short, thickset man dressed in a finely tailored black and blood-red suit, and a permanent smirk etched on his lips. For one tranquil, glorious moment, all traces of badinage and repartee cease between Moriarty and the Master, eyes unequivocally fixed on the newcomer with expressions of concurrent curiosity and irritation.

            “Sorry I’m late to the party, boys,” he says, his voice like smooth whiskey. “Couldn’t resist making a grand entrance…suppose it comes with the job description.”

            “And… _who_ exactly might you be?” Mycroft drawls in a lazy, listless tone, eyes flicking up from his smartphone for less than a fraction of a second, lest he betray that casual air of nonchalance for longer than is truly necessary. After all, a second is all it ever takes for Mycroft’s ever-observant eyes to take a swift scan of his subject’s figure, unraveling every detail of their deepest, darkest qualities and quirks before they’ve even had the chance to blink…for _this_ man, however, one word in particular springs to mind and settles like sour acid in the pit of his stomach: _devilish_.

            “Name’s Crowley,” he says, proudly poising the epithet on the tip of his tongue like it’s supposed to hold some level of _significance_ and therefore garner recognition in his current company. _Clearly_ , Mycroft muses, this egotistical lunatic has no idea who he’s dealing with.

            “Newly appointed king of hell, as it were,” Crowley adds with a small pout, eyes raking over their bored, unimpressed expressions.

            “Mmm, I think you’ve got a few details mixed up there, sweetheart,” Moriarty laughs around a mouthful of cupcake. “Last I checked, the devil was called _Lucifer_.”

            “Yes, well…you’d be surprised how many seemingly insignificant details can change in the midst of an apocalypse,” Crowley ripostes, strolling into the study like it’s his for the taking, dropping down into an empty armchair in between the Master and Moriarty, and pouring himself a tall glass of brandy.

            In a quick succession of puerile puns, tawdry innuendos, and an infectious amount of sass that somehow manages to be both infuriating and charming all at once, Crowley catches them up on the events surrounding the narrowly averted apocalypse, how Lucifer had been cast into the pit at the hands of the Winchester brothers, how _he_ had risen to the throne in Lucifer’s place. How, in a matter of _days_ , he’d transformed their entire system of soul-selling covenants and twisted new forms of torture, built up his very own army of the damned and spread them across the expanse of the planet to keep an eye on _humans_ , Crowley lilts, inclining his head in Moriarty’s general direction, of _special interest_.

            “I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time, _Jim_ ,” Crowley smirks, taking a quick swig of brandy. “You’ve had your very own… _throne_ , of sorts, rigged up and reserved in one of the deepest circles of hell the very night you sought out a deal at the cross-roads…or don’t you remember _how_ you got the gig of consulting criminal in the first place?”

            Moriarty’s eyes widen infinitesimally, shock, wonder, and all-consuming terror betraying that carefully crafted façade of collected madness for a split-second in time, before that self-satisfied little smirk edges its way back onto his lips and he fixes Crowley with a look of faux boredom and supposition. Crowley insists that his intentions had always been to follow that deal through to the very end, to wait until the ten-year period had passed before collecting retribution, allowing Moriarty to live out his remaining mortal days in as much peace as his _career prospects_ , for lack of a better word, would allow him…that is, until one of his minions had overheard their plot for universal domination and confirmed the existence of a fully functioning time machine. The very notion of collecting alien souls, in addition to those of humans (which, after millennia, become rather bland and predictable torture subjects) for the pit was too good a ruse to pass up, so he’d tracked down their little planning party in order to renew the lease on their deal: Moriarty’s in-tact, untainted soul, complete with his masterful skills and infamy, in exchange for a prominent position in this new universal order of theirs.

            Before Moriarty can even open his mouth to respond, Mycroft cuts across Crowley’s monologue with an exasperated sigh, having clearly had enough of this nonsense.

            “What a fascinating imagination you have, rattling around inside that little head of yours…but _do_ tell me, how exactly did you overhear the details and whereabouts of our planning session?” Mycroft poses, tapping an impatient finger along the edge of his teacup.

            “Like I said, Holmes…I’ve got eyes and ears _everywhere_ ,” Crowley reiterates, rolling his eyes for dramatic effect.

            “Come now, you honestly think I wouldn’t notice if you had planted miniscule microphones and hidden cameras? Don’t _ever_ presume that you can underestimate me,” Mycroft sighs, fixing Crowley with a glare that’s a cross between murderous and amused. “In addition, that _still_ does not qualify as a decent explanation for how you managed to get past my security system…I can assure you, it’s _quite_ extensive.”

            “You _clearly_ haven’t been listening, then,” Crowley spits, thoroughly frustrated now. “Advanced technology might be the only form of magic that exists in _your_ narrow worldview, and you can sit back and stew in your own manifested bubble of delirium and ignorance until the day you _die_ , but that doesn’t change the fact that I am _so much more_ powerful and revered than you could ever hope to be. Yes, you’re clever enough to anticipate wiretapping, but who’s to say that the higher-ranking officers in your guard haven’t been _possessed_ by my minions? It’s amazing how _easy_ you self-loathing, pig-headed non-believers make it for my kind to thrive.”

            “The fanciful notions of a raving madman never cease to amaze me,” Mycroft quips, without missing a beat. “Do go on, tell me more about your _army of demons_.”

            Crowley’s upper lip curls in disgust as he purposely knocks back half the bottle of expensive, gourmet brandy, staring daggers at Mycroft’s head as if to burn a hole directly through his eye sockets (which, admittedly, for Crowley, is a possible feat to achieve.) Mycroft, now thoroughly disinterested in _all_ members of his current company, slinks down in his leather armchair and resumes clicking away at the keypad of his phone.

            _We’ve got another one. — MH_

_So I’ve been told…we’ve only just met his adversaries. —SH_

_It would seem that there is an exhaustive list of psychopaths roaming about this country. —MH_

_They’re American, actually…and despite evidence that would suggest the contrary, they appear to be quite sane. —SH_

_That’s a matter of opinion. —MH_

_I’ve just been informed by a reliable source that Crowley is the king of hell. —SH_

_And who is this reliable source of which you speak? —MH_

_Three hunters and two angels. —SH_

_Please tell me that you are only jesting. —MH_

_I’m tracking the coordinates you provided…we’re on our way. —SH_

_Do hurry. He’s drinking all of my brandy. —MH_

**Part Seven: A Doctor, A Hunter, And A Consulting Detective Walk Into A Mansion…**

            Sherlock pockets his iPhone and signals to the other side of the mansion’s courtyard, where an awkward, gangly man with an oddly-shaped forehead and his leggy, ginger companion crouch behind a collection of berry bushes, and then to his left, where three men dressed in ripped jeans and plaid and strapped to the gills with shotguns and rock salt for ammunition nod their assent. A row of security guards stand just outside of the wrought-iron gates of Mycroft’s mansion, and before they even have time to sense the angels’ arrival, Castiel and Gabriel appear out of thin air, grasp two of Mycroft’s guards by the lapels of their uniforms, and press their fingertips to the demons’ foreheads, proceeding to burn their eyes clean out of their sockets.

            The Doctor frowns and pulls Amy close, who snuggles into his chest and averts her eyes from the violent attack, while Jack merely winces, knowing full well what _death by burning blindness_ feels like (moral of the story: never date an angel,) and Sherlock and John just stand there, completely unaffected, watching the entire scene play out with twin looks of macabre amusement. Once he’s certain the coast is clear, Sherlock signals again to a group of police cars shielded by a string of trees just beyond the gates, plugs in a complicated set of numbers, and in doing so, opens the gates, allowing Lestrade and his team of officers entrance. Bobby, Sam, and Dean have already picked the lock to Mycroft’s front door by the time Sherlock finishes giving Lestrade specific instructions on when he’s meant to arrest Moriarty, and the ten of them ascend the winding staircase up to the study.

            It’s oddly satisfying and just a tiny bit terrifying to think that, just this morning, Sherlock would have never believed in the existence of aliens, angels, or demons, much less those who willingly hunt and travel with them. The Doctor and Amelia Pond, who’d come to 221B Baker Street in search of eyewitnesses for whoever had stolen his TARDIS, and had been let in by Mrs. Hudson, thinking they were clients…Captain Jack Harkness, long-standing member of a secret service dedicated to tracking down aliens, who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere with the use of a vortex manipulator in the hopes that he’d find the Doctor…Bobby Singer, and Sam and Dean Winchester, who’d been visited by Castiel and Gabriel and informed via something Dean likes to call “Angel Radio” that Crowley, the newly-appointed king of hell, planned to team up with some of the most dangerous minds in all of creation in a plot for universal domination, and sought to find the Doctor, appearing on the corner of a busy London avenue just in time to catch up with Sherlock, John, Jack, Amy, and the Doctor. But here they are, in flesh and blood, in angel grace and arton energy, standing before him, an unlikely band of reckless misfits teaming up to face their adversaries.

 

**Part Eight: The Ruse Unravels**

 

            One would wonder, of course, how Mycroft Holmes had managed to retain wireless service in light of James Moriarty’s blackout. What Moriarty had neglected to consider in his grand scheme is that Mycroft has his own private wireless service installed within the mansion, that links specifically to his phone. Given Moriarty’s blemished but otherwise highly efficient lock-down of transportation and communication surrounding England’s borders, Mycroft is surprised to discover that he is still able to receive text messages from his little team of investigative police, which apparently keeps growing by the minute. Taking a moment to ponder the situation, he comes to the logical conclusion that Sherlock, clever as he is, must have somehow discovered a loophole.

            _I’m curious…however did you manage it?_ Mycroft inquires.

            _You would not believe the truth if I told you. —SH_

            _Try me,_ Mycroft insists. He pauses briefly, eyes roving the perimeter of the study to make certain that his guests are still preoccupied with their childish bickering and none the wiser of his surreptitious correspondence, and glances down at his inbox to read an uncharacteristically lengthy message from his little brother.

            _Everything you claim as folly and folklore is true. Along the way to your enchanted little castle, I met a man called the Doctor, and I have seen what he is capable of. He’s an extra-terrestrial, that much is clear, and he used an advanced technological device called a sonic screwdriver to repair the connection to our phones. He is, I confess, quite remarkable. —SH_

            Mycroft sighs in exasperation, rolling his eyes as he composes a reply. When Sherlock was a child, he had tried to be delicate concerning his younger brother’s wild imagination, but this was beyond foolish, and he simply had to set Sherlock straight, once and for all.

            _Come now, Sherlock. Don’t be ridiculous. Aliens do not exist. Angels and demons and kings of hell do not exist. These men are delusional. I don’t believe a word of it, and neither should you. That Doctor bloke must have been very convincing to have deceived you so…or perhaps you’re simply delirious with euphoria at having commandeered such a riveting case…either way, keep your head level, or I’ll have it examined._

            For several minutes, his phone remains dead silent…and then:

_£50 says that you will be convinced otherwise. —SH_

            Mycroft’s faux sympathetic smile twists into a mischievous smirk as he types _I gladly accept_ , but before he can press the little green send button, the heavy, double doors of the study are thrust open, and in strolls Sherlock and John, followed closely by eight oddly dressed, unkempt strangers, three of which appear to be holding shotguns. Without cause or care, they immediately aim their guns at the man in the finely tailored suit, who purses his lips and raises his eyebrows in genuine shock.

            “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you boys, but apparently, the gig is up. See you in hell,” Crowley lilts, vanishing in a wisp of smoke before Bobby, Sam, and Dean can get their hands on him. The three of them curse in unison, dropping their shoulders and resting their shotguns at their sides, while Castiel whispers, _what an absolute assbutt_ under his breath and Gabriel sighs audibly and rolls his eyes so hard he nearly gives his vessel an aneurysm. Mycroft merely stares in the direction of Crowley’s vacated seat for several moments, blinking rapidly and openly gaping, before coming to his senses and deciding that it was merely a figment of his imagination, resolutely stubborn as he is.

            “Ah, Sherlock!” he exclaims, delicately placing his seventh biscuit down onto its plate and easing himself up out of his armchair. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming, after all. It certainly took you long enough, even without the trains running. But no matter…that’s to be expected, I suppose. Do come in, dear brother, there’s plenty of tea and cakes for everyone. Don’t be rude, now…come and introduce me to your little friends…and I’ll introduce you to mine.”

            Mycroft’s smile is saccharine laced with venom, and it’s making Sherlock sick, and, admittedly, a tiny bit jealous, seeing just how easy it is for his brother to play along and blend in with dangerous criminals and villains. His lips twist into a scowl as he whisks further into the room, muscles tensing the moment he steps into Moriarty’s line of sight, seething, ready to strike…but all it takes to calm him down is the delicate placement of John’s hand between his shoulder blades. John grips Sherlock’s arm and gently tugs him backward, locking his eyes onto Sherlock’s, giving him a knowing look. After a moment of idle contemplation, Sherlock nods, and his mouth curves into a wicked smile, having finally settled on which angle he’s going to play.

            “So…having fun at your little tea party, are you?” Sherlock hisses.

            “Mmm…it was quite the smasher before you turned up, Sherlock,” Moriarty drawls, his expression positively serpentine. “Which reminds me…get the fuck out.”

            “Oh, but didn’t anyone tell you? I was _personally_ invited,” Sherlock quips, his smile growing impossibly wider as Moriarty flinches, turns sharply toward Mycroft, and fixes him with a murderous glare.

            “Why is _he_ here?” Moriarty snaps, his knuckles turning white from the exertion of his fingertips digging into the sides of his leather armchair. He reaches for a nearby fork, brandishing it between Sherlock and Mycroft as he speaks. “I made it _perfectly clear_ , did I not, that Sherlock was to be left out of this? He’s not _worthy_ of a role in this plan.”

            Mycroft merely chuckles like he’s watching a child throw a temper tantrum.

            “Put that fork down, there’s a good lad,” he says, strolling over to stand beside his younger brother. “Do be reasonable, Jim. Universal domination? _Aliens_? _Time travel_? _Are you serious_? I had, originally, ranked your intelligence _beyond_ such nonsensical ravings, but you are a proven disappointment.”

            “This is absolute _treachery_. I placed my _trust_ in you, Jim. I trusted _your word_ when you told me that this man would make a good addition to our team, thought I could _trust_ a fellow politician,” the Master growls, the teacup previously held in his hands smashing soundly to the hardwood floor. Loki, meanwhile, sits upon his leather ottoman and watches the verbal brawl from afar, quietly amused by the inherently _human_ need for such petty forms of assault.

            “Oh, come now, Mr. Saxon, you know perfectly well that they’re all horribly corrupt at heart,” Mycroft smirks.

            “I’m sorry,” the Doctor cuts in, a bitter laugh escaping his mouth. “You actually _believe_ that this man is Harold Saxon? _Still_?”

            “Besides which,” Mycroft adds, completely ignoring the interruption. “Even if humans ever _did_ develop the ability to travel through time and space, you don’t possess the skills and the patience necessary to complete such a daunting task. Simply put: you would have never been able to pull it off, the _lot of you_. King of the cosmos? Supreme ruler over all of alien life? _Poppycock_. Honestly, Jim…what’s next, the existence of _angels_?”

            “Oh, but angels _do_ exist, actually,” the Doctor chimes in again, stepping forward with one fingertip raised in the air. “And some of them, as it happens, are actually quite lovely. Take Castiel here…he’s polite, resourceful, helpful…albeit slightly awkward and a bit lost…but he’s kind-hearted and has the purest of intentions, which is what truly counts…mind you, I don’t much care for his boyfriend.”

            “Um…I’m not…I’m not his…” Castiel trails off, shifting uncomfortably and glancing nervously over at Dean, who purposefully avoids his piercing gaze. Gabriel, meanwhile, stands in the corner by Loki and Dalek Caan with a petulant pout, looking thoroughly wounded that _his_ finer qualities never even got a passing remark…not to mention _his profound bond_ with the taller Winchester brother.

            “Oh, come off it, Doctor,” Amy argues, rolling her eyes. “Dean only hit you with rock salt, not a bullet. It can’t have hurt that bad.”

            “It _did_ hurt. _A lot_. Left a bruise the size of…well… _something very large_ , hitting me square in the chest. Nearly gave me a heart attack, which…as you know, would’ve been twice as bad for me. And besides, he was _mean_ to me. He called me a…a…oh, I can’t even say it.”

            “A stupid, son of a bitch?” Amy supplies helpfully.

            “I already apologized for that like _a hundred times_ , dude…” Dean sighs, shaking his head in frustration.

            “Of course he did, Doctor…he thought you were _possessed by a demon_. The way you were carrying on about refractors and sonic settings and fixed points in time, I might’ve done it _myself_. You have no idea what you sound like to _normal_ people.”

            “Amy, they hunt demons for a living. You call that normal?” the Doctor asks, perfectly nonplussed.

            “Compared to _us_? Yes,” Amy replies, arching her eyebrows.

            “You’re only defending them because you fancy the other Winchester brother,” the Doctor pouts.

            “What, the good-looking moose?” Amy smirks.

            “Um, can you not…” Sam starts to protest, head tilted to the side in confusion.

            “Oh, Doctor…have I made you jealous?” Amy teases, delighting in the way the Doctor’s lips twist into a tight line and his eyebrows narrow in Sam’s direction.

            “Not in the least bit, _Pond_. Why, would you like it if I was?” he retorts, smirking.

            “Oh, for god’s sake, get a room,” Jack murmurs under his breath.

            “Okay, we _are_ right here, you know,” Sam interjects, raising his eyebrows.

            “A gorgeous girl said you were cute, Sammy. Take the rare compliment for what it is and don’t argue,” Dean mumbles, playfully poking his younger brother in the ribs.

            Bobby merely rolls his eyes, the word _idjits_ on the tip of his tongue. It takes all of his self-control not to knock their heads together.

            “Enough of this childish banter, please, it’s doing my head in,” Mycroft interrupts, rubbing circles on his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Have you brought your little team of police dogs, or is this the entire cavalry?”

            Sherlock gives his brother a small smile, before clicking the little green button on his phone and hovering over the mouthpiece.

            “Send them in, Lestrade.”

            For the third time that day, the double doors burst open and in walks Detective Inspector Lestrade, flanked by a small squad of police offers, who immediately round on Moriarty and the Master, wrestling Jim into a pair of handcuffs and the former Prime Minister into a straightjacket.

            “Ah, Jim, is it? I was beginning to wonder when we’d finally catch up to you,” Lestrade smirks, circling Moriarty with a satisfied smile as he stands by the double doors, held in place by two police officers firmly gripping his arms, his expression downright feral.

            “Lieutenant Mills and Officer Crane will escort you to your new containment chamber,” Lestrade says.

            “Where would you like us to take him, Detective?” Officer Crane inquires.

            “Prisoner car’s already got a passenger,” Lieutenant Mills elaborates.

            “Oh, I don’t care,” Lestrade waves them off absentmindedly. “Put him in the car with Moran, then, too. And keep a close watch on them…we don’t need any unwanted camaraderie between those two.”

            Lieutenant Mills and Officer Crane nod in unison, leading a writhing, struggling Moriarty out the double doors and down to the parking circle. Two more officers move to arrest Harold Saxon, but the Doctor cuts in, insisting that the Master is _his_ responsibility, and he’ll gladly take him off their hands. Lestrade tries to protest, but Sherlock assures him that the Master will be in good care with the Doctor, given that they’re of the same species. Lestrade curls his upper lip in confusion, but decides it’s better if he doesn’t question the heavily convoluted meaning behind what Sherlock had just said. Before anyone can argue further, Jack Harkness steps forward, navy blue pea coat swishing magnificently around his ankles as he slips into the space between Castiel and Gabriel.

            “Next order of business,” he says, smirking as he glances back and forth between the both of them, not-so-subtly admiring the view (at which Gabriel preens, Castiel looks incredibly uncomfortable, and Dean looks murderous) and adds, “think the angelic creatures in the room… _who_ , I might add, are _certainly_ living up to their title…would mind using some of their magic mojo to help me snag Moriarty’s lockdown codes?”

            In a manner of minutes, they’ve managed to extract the complex list of codes and keys that Moriarty had obtained from Mycroft’s central computer, implanted into Jack’s mind with a simple touch of Gabriel’s fingertips.

            “Any chance you’d be willing to stick around for a bit? You know, _after_ you’ve done your whole heroic shtick and unlocked UNIT and SHIELD headquarters, and the Torchwood Hub?” Gabriel asks, hopeful. Sam stands in the background, listening in on their conversation and looking mildly offended.  
            “Sorry, handsome, but I’ve already got a boyfriend…and after all of the trauma he’s undoubtedly been through today, being locked in a small, enclosed space with Owen, Tosh, and Gwen’s inevitable bickering, I’m going to need to make it up to him,” Jack replies, fixing Gabriel with a sympathetic frown as he plugs in a set of coordinates.

            “Oh, and before I forget,” he says, strolling over to Sherlock and handing him a small plastic bag with a little white pill. “Might want to retcon your brother when all of this is over…I don’t think he’s going to be able to handle the memory of this.”

            Sherlock takes the bag without question, pursing his lips and searching for an appropriate response. He’s saved from having to do so when Jack turns toward the Doctor and Amy, kisses both of them full on the mouth, and disappears in a flurry of electrical sparks and buzzes. Mycroft blanches, not certain as to whether his sanity can withstand any more strain than it already has.

            “Lastly,” the Doctor says, quickly recovering from Jack’s cheeky, albeit _not entirely unwelcome_ , assault on his lips. “We need to decide what we’re going to do with this one here.”

            The Doctor indicates Loki, who’s been quietly sitting on the edge of his ottoman, innocently sipping at his tea and overseeing everything that’s just happened with an air of nonchalant amusement and utter confusion.

            “Hello,” he says cheerily. “I’m the Doctor. That’s a lovely hat you’ve got.”

            The Doctor attempts to lift the polished, golden, horn-embellished crown from off of Loki’s head, meaning to try it on, but a swift kick to the shin administered by Amy makes him think twice about doing so.

            “I am Loki,” he says, not entirely certain whether he should follow it up with where he’s from, if he’s determined to follow through with his clandestine plan. For reasons unknown to him, the angel Gabriel doubles over in laughter, clutching his sides like the sheer amusement of the name is causing him physical pain. Loki chooses to ignore it.

            “And how exactly did you come to be here?” the Doctor asks.

            “I was…kidnapped, admittedly, by that man over there,” he says tentatively, inclining his head in the Master’s general direction, who openly scowls at him.

            “I am truly sorry for what you’ve had to go through,” the Doctor says quietly. “Can I make it up to you by offering you a ride back home?”

            Loki’s lips twist into a devilish grin as he vaults from the leather ottoman and into a standing position.

            “I am of the Chitauri race,” he lies smoothly. “Would you happen to know the coordinates?”

            “Not off the top of my head, but I’m sure the old girl can get you there without a problem… _possibly_ ,” the Doctor says, opening the TARDIS doors with a simple click of his fingers and ushering Loki inside.

            “Excuse me,” Mycroft interjects, his expression a combination of boredom and irritation, edging on melodramatic despair. “But what will become of the over-sized cappuccino machine?”

            “Oh, _that_ …you can keep it, if you like,” the Doctor replies, shrugging his shoulders. “But _do_ treat him with care, Dalek Caan has been through quite a lot in his lifetime.”

            Mycroft merely quirks an eyebrow as a form of _thanks_.

            “Now, as for the rest of you…I presume you’d all like a ride back home as well?” the Doctor asks, smiling round at the rest of his company.

            “Thank you, Doctor, but I am certain that Gabriel and I have more than enough angelic _mojo_ as Dean would call it, to get us all back to the states,” Castiel says, a small smile etched on his lips. And bless him, he even air quotes the word _mojo_.

            “Cas, buddy, I am _so_ not missing out on the opportunity to travel by time machine,” Dean says, all but running through the open doors of the TARDIS, closely followed by Sam, the both of them laughing and exclaiming that it’s _bigger on the inside_. Bobby gives the Doctor a gruff _thank you_ before stepping inside, while Castiel and Gabriel slowly saunter in behind him.

            “Well, that’s everyone, I think,” the Doctor says cheerfully, fixing Sherlock and John with a brilliant smile. “It’s been an adventure, truly it has, meeting the both of you. I look forward to our correspondence in future.”

            “As do I, Doctor,” Sherlock says, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

            “Take care, now,” John says, all formality and business as he shakes the Doctor’s hand. With a satisfied grin and quick readjustment of his little red bowtie, the Doctor slips behind the bright blue wooden doors of his time machine and sets the coordinates for Sioux Falls in South Dakota. The engines start to whirr, filling the study with loud, obnoxious wheezing as Sherlock, John, and Mycroft stare in fascinated fixation.

            “You’re going to want to see this. Trust me,” Sherlock whispers to his older brother, unable to keep the smug, self-satisfied smirk out of his tone. Mycroft can’t help but stare, completely dumbfounded, as the little blue box vanishes from sight in a series of fading pops and pulses, the very last shred of his sanity cracking into tiny fissures and giving way to madness… _or worse_ , he muses…to the reluctant acceptance of supernatural elements, coexisting in his mundane, mortal world. Without a single word, Mycroft reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a £50 note from his wallet, firmly placing it in Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

            “Well, would you look at that,” Sherlock jests, unable to stop himself. “Apparently, aliens _do_ exist.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty damn giddy about having _finally_ finished and posted this cracky little cross-over fic, as it's been sitting in my word doc drafts for actual, literal _years_.


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